


Devil Side

by vodkabite



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Dark, Double Agents, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Mercy-centric, Origin Story, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Slow Burn, Smut, Talon Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Talon Gérard Lacroix, Torbjörn is Angela's Uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 12:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10334189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkabite/pseuds/vodkabite
Summary: A dark story about a medical prodigy's sociopathic tendencies and the daughter of a legendary sniper who wants to be broken.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in Overwatch hell, specifically Pharmercy hell at this point, because seriously you can't ask for an incredibly healthy and wholesome ship and not flip it upside down with angst. Legit, if you see anything of this pair with my name on it, you'll be in for a dark ride.  
> Also Angela's character is in part based on heronfoot's version of her in their Reverse!Overwatch AU. Check out their stuff, it is awesome. The other part of Angela's (and Fareeha's) character is based off of Oh Sangwoo's from the manhwa Killing Stalking. Support the author and the comic by going there.
> 
> Lyrics are from Foxes’ "Devil Side".
> 
> Also, in this fic Fareeha is 16 which is the legal age of consent in Switzerland.
> 
> \--
> 
>  **EDIT:** This story was originally titled “Eyes Like A Car Crash” and was supposed to be an epic one-shot, but due to spending so much time on it and being desperate to finally get it published, I cut it up and published a half-assed first chapter. And because of that, working on the second chapter was such a hassle, the pacing of the story was broken so it couldn't be continued. 
> 
> So I would to thank everyone who read, kudos'd, subscribed, bookmarked and commented on the story, the awesome Hipsterpotomu5 for beta reading this monstrosity and I hope you all enjoy this revised version.

 

_Run and hide, it's gonna be bad tonight_  
_'Cause here comes your devil side_  
_It's gonna ruin me_

 

 

When Angela joins Talon, she feels nothing.

She’s only sixteen when they first started appearing in her life. Annoying little blips on her radar, always watching, always following. Men in black suits trailing after her in dark cars with tinted windows, women coincidentally inserting themselves in her everyday life, knowing far too much about her for their presence to be accidental. Strange numbers call and send her messages, promising her everything she could ever want if she came to work for them.

Angela ignores them until her parents die.

Victims of a suicide bombing in Bern at the hands of some disgruntled, war torn omnic suffering from one too many demons that his only way out was to explode into a million pieces at the center of the city’s most populated street. At the morgue, the coroner brings her to where all the unidentified bodies are kept, she doesn’t find them. Among the piles of dead, mutilated and destroyed bodies, she can’t find them. Uncle Torbjörn consoles her, saying a sixteen-year-old shouldn’t be seeing mangled corpses; such gore rots the brain.

She visits the morgue as often as she can, it’s only natural for a child to want to see their parents, even if her brain rots away as a result.

By the end of the month, when the suicide bombing taking the lives of her parents and many others is no longer shocking enough to be on the news, she receives a home visit from two police detectives. With a heavy heart, they tell her that her parents were too close to the omnic when the explosion happened, close enough that their bodies were consumed by the blast.

The streets are cleaned, reconstruction on the affected stores and restaurants caught in the blast zone has already begun and the bodies left unidentified and unclaimed in the city morgue are buried in unmarked graves.

Angela wants no part of their funeral. The caskets being lowered into the ground are hollow and empty, she finds reading a eulogy in front of all their family and friends pointless and tedious, leaving that to everyone else. She wears black because it’s customary, like an unspoken rule.

She cries because it’s expected, another unspoken rule.

A man in a dark overcoat appears at their funeral, glasses perched atop a straight nose, piercing green eyes and hair cut stylishly; only a few years older than her. The man’s rich, the smell of his cologne overpowering the smell of wet earth and grieving souls. He’s voice is low, educated with a hint of power and sophistication, his French accent noticeable underneath the fake one he uses to fool everyone.

“Such a tragedy,” he says with a saddened look that was almost convincing. “They were good people; they didn’t deserve this.”

Angela stares at their gravestones.

 

_Aaron Cyrillus Ziegler and Helena Ziegler_

_loving parents and wonderful friends, an inspiration to all._

 

“May they find peace in Heaven.” The man says and it’s the biggest insult she’s ever heard.

Angela knows she’s lost her mind.

She’s not clawing at her own skin, desperate and fearful because there’s voices inside her head telling her to do so. She’s not killing small animals or setting fires. No, it’s much worse than that. Because Angela can hide it all behind her pretty face and no one suspects a thing.

She can lie with her perfect crystal blue eyes and angelic smile and no one will think anything less of her.

Talon finds her to be a wondrous asset.

A child prodigy with genius level intellect, cold and calculating; she is taken under the Frenchman’s wing with the task of turning her into one of them. His name is Gérard Lacroix, a twenty-two-year-old business man from France who runs his own weapons manufacturing company. He’s condescending and a greedy little bastard of the highest degree. But he’s very charming and likable, making him one of the most manipulative fucks Angela has ever met.

Under his tutelage, she learns things no sixteen-year-old ever should.

Working with Talon, she does things no decent human being with a working moral compass ever should.

Humans are fragile, weak little things, able to be broken and torn apart. Omnics, while hard and more durable because of their metal bodies, were prone to malfunctions and were able to be hacked and manipulated from afar. She learns this from sitting in on a group of Talon’s top scientists as they worked on something called Project Morpheus. Named after the Greek god of dreams, the program is where they studied the effects of mind control, interrogation and behavior modification tactics.

It’s unsuccessful, of course.

The program was focusing too much on forcing their test subjects to do their bidding without proper preparation. Angela knows they’re hell bent on finding the best tactic to turn their subjects into mindless slaves.

Gérard asks the blonde her opinion on Morpheus after spending weeks observing the scientists try and fail. He does this often, always asking her to weigh in her thoughts, always wanting to know what went on inside her head.

“The mind is resilient when it’s under attack,” Angela explains to a very interested Frenchman over a glass of red wine and pan-seared sea scallops with cauliflower purée and fried capers. His treat, finding that a discussion over dinner is far more suitable and pleasant than over the phone. “They have more of a chance of turning the test subjects into vegetables than extracting information or forcing them to follow commands.”

“And what would you suggest then?” He asks, stabbing a scallop with his fork.

“That they slow down. Manipulate and brainwash them slowly and over the course of time, the test subjects will be more susceptible to being controlled. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Interesting, so simple and yet, it sounds like a more highly effective approach.” He’s impressed and soon Talon’s higher ups will be as well. Gérard smiles and Angela can’t help but roll her eyes.

“Why else do you think poisoning was the preferred choice of murder in the ancient world?”

Gérard immediately informs his superiors, and while skeptical that a teenager even with being a child prodigy would presume to know more than a group of scientists twice her age, they follow her suggestion. It takes months of standing behind a one-way glass mirror with bated breath for the results to be seen. The test subjects are fed on a consistent basis now, kept clean and bathed regularly, they are cared for each day.

And once they are lulled into a false sense of security, promised freedom and a chance to live normal lives again, they are water boarded. Mock executions are held, they are thrown into solitary confinement for many hours and are ruthlessly interrogated for just as long at irregular intervals throughout the week. The scientists ask them questions and command them to do simple tasks. And then the process repeats itself.

The test subjects start to fall apart one by one, until soon, their minds are weakened enough and Talon’s indoctrination takes hold.

Satisfied with the results, Talon assigns her to run Project Morpheus.                               

 

 

By the end of university, at seventeen, Angela knows there's something wrong with her. 

It has been a full year since her parents' deaths and she has yet to shed a genuine tear. Yet, to actually grieve their loss and Torbjörn is worried. For a period of time, he moves into Angela’s house with his wife Olivia. They move in from Sweden and try to liven up the house and hopefully it’ll trudge up some memories that will make her feel again. Home cooked meals at the dinner table every night, hugs and kisses and the familiar touch of another human being’s warmth upon her cold skin.

“How was work today _min kära_?”

“Fine.”

She doesn’t want this.

“Your aunt and I are heading into town, we’re thinking of heading to that French little bistro by the bank. Want to come with?”

“No thank you.”

She wants them gone.

“We’re going to drop off some flowers at the cemetery, white roses and lilies, your mother’s favorites.”

“I have work.”

Their presence is nothing more than a grating reminder of what should have been and she counts down the days until they realize just how meaningless their attempts at humanizing her is.

Torbjörn and Olivia both shoot her looks when Mother’s Day rolls around, pitiful and sad, they start talking about the future when they think Angela is sound asleep in her bed. “She’s seventeen now and has never gone to visit them. This isn’t normal.” Angela scoffs, knowing that Olivia would be the one to bring this up. The old woman is tired of having to play the stand-in mother for her husband’s niece, she wants to go back home to Sweden and be with the children she has forsaken to be here. “She needs help, _professional help_.”

Torbjörn tries to make an argument that night, but it falls flat. He’s tired too and the second he mentions the idea of therapy; Angela dismisses it quickly. She’s sixteen, a grown adult in the eyes of the law.

By Father’s Day, Angela isn’t coping the way her darling uncle would have wanted and he’s had enough.

It’s her day off (issued by Gérard, because he’s not “that much of a bad guy”) when Torbjörn corners her in the living room where she sits on the loveseat with a book in her lap. Reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Do you not feel anything?” He screams, the empty house shaken to its foundation. _“Anything at all?”_

Angela barely gives him enough of a glance to warrant interest.

The frustration pours out of him like a puncture wound to the neck, fast and loud, gushing out at such an alarming rate there’s no chance for recovery. He stares at her in disbelief, lips quivering at the lack of response. Angela can practically see the wheels turning in his head, see the slideshow of memories of her being held in his arms as a baby and playing doctor with him when she was a child. The memories bring a tear to his eye and she almost envies him. _Almost._

“Your parents loved you,” he says, voice cracking. “Loved you more than anything in the world and you can’t even visit them? They’re six feet under and have yet to see you in over a year!”

“First _Uncle_ , there’s nothing underneath the gravestones. Their coffins are empty because the explosion charred them to a crisp. There aren’t even ashes.” Angela spits, venom lacing her tone. “And _secondly,_ I don’t need you or your wife here. You want me to grieve, then fine! But how can I, if all you do is try to shove the memory of them down my throat?”

This is how she finds herself seated on a leather couch with a psychiatrist sitting across from her. The room is warm, and full of furnishings that are supposed to appeal to her senses with neutral, pleasing colors. Angela knows the man sitting across from her is being paid way too much to ask all these probing questions, especially when Angela refuses to answer them.

She prefers to look at her phone screen, play a simple mind numbing game or stare absently at her fingernails or the shelves full of psychology books — Angela attending these sessions was in the hopes of getting Torbjörn and his wife out of her house. She agreed to sit here with the psychiatrist twice a week, she never agreed to make this easy for them.

The doctor is patient though. They spend weeks in utter silence with nothing but the sound of the clock on the wall ticking the seconds away and the man’s incessant humming. He would occasionally ask her questions, simple inane ones like ‘how are you today?’ or ‘have you seen anything good on TV recently?’

It's all bullshit.

And by the sixth week of bullshit, twelve bullshit sessions later, the doctor cracks. They run tests on her and the doctor starts rambling on and on about life is hard for everyone, how there's a silver lining at the end and the dark days will be over. Angela scoffs at this notion, it's the first time she's showed anything that wasn't monotone indifference. Her dark days would never end, not as long as her parents’ death weighed heavily on her chest. If anything, joining Talon ensured that there would never be an end.

They decided to give her anti-depressants as a way to jumpstart her “recovery”. Angela never takes them, always finding ways to trick everyone into thinking she’s is and soon they catch on. She’s with Gérard one evening he notices how tired and irritable she is.

“They won’t leave you alone,” he says from behind the rim of his champagne glass. “At least not until you start acting like you’re better.”

“I don’t need therapy, I don’t need to get better, I just _need_ a distraction.”

“Well, _mon cher,_ you need to start acting like the doctors and your uncle are helping you. If not, they won’t hesitate to put you in a straitjacket and lock you in a padded cell.”

“Talon will just get me out, manipulate the system or something.”

“They could, but not for you. Your uncle is a member of Overwatch; just for that fact they’d prefer to cut off all ties and leave you to rot.” His words are cold and cynical, but so true. “Manipulate them yourself.”

There’s an idea.

The words strike a chord with Angela, she figures how simple and easy it would be to get out of these stupid therapy sessions if she just played along. How easy it would be to get Torbjörn out of Switzerland if she just played into his little savior complex. Gérard may be a greedy bastard who’s only genius came to business and negotiations, but he did have a brilliant idea every now and then, Angela thanks him and puts her plan to work.

It’s week ten when she finally talks to the doctor.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“I know but maybe we can help each other.” The doctor says with a smile, like he finally managed to crack Angela open and has her spilling all of her deep, dark secrets. Angela tells them what they need to know to think she’s getting better.

Torbjörn understands.

Or at least he thinks he does. She lost her parents at sixteen, a very crucial moment in her life; of course, she wouldn’t be normal after that. Now when their deaths are still fresh in her mind, haunting her dreams. Causing her to wake up at night in cold sweats, drowning under the thoughts of what could’ve been. Once Angela has proven that she’s somewhat better, somewhat _normal,_ Torbjörn and Olivia head back to Sweden under the pretense that everything will be fine now.

In reality, nothing will ever be fine. Not when Torbjörn comes to visit one day and the house is up in flames. The house his sister bought with her husband, the house where they’d hold family gatherings, the house where he would play doctor with little Angela is now gone. Forever. A glorious explosion of orange and yellow against the cold winter night. The fire eats away at the house and smoke fills the air. Angela stands in front of the house, an empty gallon of gasoline in one hand and a book of matches in the other.

 

 

With Torbjörn gone and the therapy sessions with her psychiatrist finally over, Angela can put all her energy into her work with Talon.

Project Morpheus continues and even forms a sub-project called Operation Midnight Climax; a small project consisting of a web of Talon-run safehouses across Europe where prostitutes on organization’s payroll were instructed to lure unsuspecting clients back to these safehouses where they were unknowingly drugged with a wide range of substances and monitored behind one-way glass.

Its purpose?

To develop significant operational techniques including extensive research into sexual blackmail, surveillance technology, and the possible use of mind-altering drugs in field operations. With Project Morpheus doing so well in breaking subjects of their will and drive to live, the higher ups in Talon wanted something that could break their enemies faster. Something quick and easy and fast to administer.

As head scientist, Angela is expected to watch over a good portion of the experiments. And as such, this is how she’s found herself in Bern looking through a one-way glass, observing a man in his mid to late thirties getting a blowjob while the effects of the ketamine that was slipped into his drink takes hold. It’s a disgusting display of humans, sweaty and dirty, rutting like animals in heat.

“Take note: with ketamine, the subject is more lax and mentally unresponsive, yet the body still responds to stimulation.” She tells one of the researchers who scribbles everything down. “The subject appears to be dissociative; schedule patient one-two-seven to be administered eight milliliters of ketamine while in the sensory deprivation tank.”

“Also, make sure the mercenaries take the John to a nearby hotel when he's… finished.”

Running both programs is stressful. But as long as she is kept occupied, it doesn't matter.

Each day, she makes sure the prostitutes are in good enough condition to work. She shudders as she watches some of them brush their hair and apply makeup to their faces, knowing that in a matter of hours their hair would be mussed and faces covered in the come of some disgusting bastard who couldn’t contain himself. She wonders why these women, and some men, would do something like this? She gets her answer at the end of the day when Gérard pays them. It’s a substantial amount and of course, for that amount of money they’d do anything.

“There are somethings worse than death kid,” one of the prostitutes tell her when she’s caught staring. Scrutinizing with her crystal blue eyes.

“I’m not a kid.”

“ _Schatz,_ you’re seventeen with your whole life ahead of you and yet, you’re getting mixed up with these fuckers.” The woman says applying a dark red shade of lipstick. “You don’t know what you’re doing, don’t know what you’re losing and so _that_ makes you a kid.”

Angela wants to retort, open her mouth and say something but Gérard appears at the doorway and motions for the woman to do what she needs to do. They’ve secured a client and now she’d have to spread her legs for them, the woman bids her farewell and is gone.

 

 

Angela has come a long way since she first started out with Talon.

A long way since her parents died.

Torbjörn calls her once in a blue moon to see how she’s doing, if she’s getting better. She lies to placate him and keep him as far away from Switzerland as possible. She tells him all about her job at the biggest hospital in Zürich, how she’s their top surgeon and has made a lot of good friends. And it couldn't be further from the truth.

Outside of Talon, Angela doesn’t make it a point to form relationships of any type, she finds them pointless and messy. At best, she considers Gérard to be a friend but it all starts and ends with them being nothing more than business associates.

She’s the little investment plan that makes him money and he’s her mediator aimed to keep her in Talon’s good graces and further along her projects.

Angela is cold and clinical, even as she makes the occasional point to smile. More so to keep up the act of being human than anything else. Angela is usually quiet but when she speaks, everyone is interested. Even the older scientists who once envied her for being placed above them. They find her charming and intelligent, always leaning in closer to hear more. It's all an act but she enjoys the feeling she gets whenever people hang on her every word.

The way people seem to be enraptured by her fake smiles and even faker feelings of affections.

Of course, it does nothing to stave off the decline in her humanity over the following years.

She no longer turns away in revulsion when the test subjects are tortured. Instead she revels in it, watching the human form be broken and ripped apart. She feels nothing when they scream and Gérard has been noted on more than one occasion of staring at Angela as if she were some savage animal. A monster.

Maybe she is.

 

 

Applause and congratulations are in order when Project Morpheus is deemed enough of a success that Talon greenlights it into the next phase of their plans.

It's called Project Demigod, the reason for all these experiments. Their super soldier program, meant to create mindless soldiers whose enhanced abilities could be sold to the highest bidder. The sole reason Talon and Gérard sought her out.

Their hideout in St. Gallen is broken and worn down, resembling more of an abandoned asylum than anything royally beautiful. It's decrepit and smells of moss, mold and decay. A far cry from the usual cold and sterile experiment rooms, she's so used to but Talon figured it would be best to carry out Demigod's preliminary experiments here just in case the subjects didn't react well to the experiments. She agrees, at least if the guinea pigs die they could just leave the bodies here, shove a dirty needle into their arms and relocate somewhere else.

The first test subject they bring her is a young man, early to mid-twenties, shaven and physically fit. The mercenaries standing on guard outside tell her the man is a petty criminal, a thief who had the habit of mugging people at gunpoint in the dead of night.

They had given her a file on him, something they made during the two weeks they spent stalking him. Waiting for the perfect moment to kidnap him.

He's strapped down to the bed, mouth gagged as he stares helplessly at his surroundings. Eyes brimming with tears, he muffles something incoherent, drool collecting around the ball gag. Angela stands beside the operating table, glasses pushed up the bridge of her nose. A recorder is brought to her mouth: "Oh one hundred hours, subject will be tested, Project Demigod begins now."

She places the recorder down, next to the ECT machine. She hooks the machine up to the man and grabs his file, sitting down in a chair beside him.

"Matthew," Angela says, detached as she skims through the file for important notes. "Your name is Matthew now."

"What? My name is James—"

The ECT machine is switched on and a volt of electricity shoots through the man's chest.

The man thrashes about wildly trying to get free. It's a futile attempt and Angela turns off the machine. The man deflates, gasping and coughing against the ball gag. Eyes watery and glazed over.

"What is your name?"

"You people are fucking insane—"

Another shot of electricity courses through the man's body. His heartbeat skyrockets, body twitching, convulsing madly and just before he's actually dead, the machine is off once more. A cruel tease. The process is repeated several times but the petty thief still tries to valiantly hold onto his name. Angela scoffs at the way the man struggles against the straps. His veins are bright and angry, pale skin flushed to a dark red color.

"Once more... What _is_ your name?"

"JAMES YOU PSYCHOPATH—"

Smoke fills the room, and then suddenly, the heart monitor flatlines. She sighs, why are the pitiful ones always filled with the most fight?

"Subject zero-zero-one is a failure. Death by ventricular fibrillation." Frustrated at the lack of progress, she shakes her head at the dead body strapped to the operating table. She's close to it but it's not enough. Luckily for her, there's time to perfect it.

"Send in the next test subject and bring the hose, this one is going to be waterboarded."

 

 

_It's almost like, slow motion suicide  
Watching your devil side, get between you and me_

 

 

No one told her she would lose herself.

She notices it months into working with Overwatch as the leader of their Science and Medical Program. Angela was only eighteen when the UN's multi-national task force of peacekeeping, pseudo-police dogs sought her out. A child prodigy from Switzerland taking the helm? Perfect! Same child prodigy who is also the niece of Torbjörn Lindholm, one of their own, even fucking better!

Being related to him, the members welcome her with open arms. Large and wide; Reinhardt Wilhelm crushes her in a bear hug the second she walks through the doors of their Zürich headquarters. Cooing in German at how grown his best friend's niece was and how everything was coming full circle with her finally joining Overwatch.

Thankfully the others only give her lighthearted one arm hugs. A sense of mistrust and weariness coming from the leading founders, Morrison, Reyes and Amari. They think she's too young to take control of an entire division, Gérard only being there half the time to the point where the man wasn't even considered an actual leader.

She watches the way they regard her, scrutinizing with their eyes war torn eyes. Ana Amari, legendary sniper, is the worst of them all. Beautiful, long thick black hair, eyes as cold as metal. Falcon-like. It is almost as though the woman can see the betrayal. The word 'traitor' etched onto her forehead "Welcome to Overwatch, Miss Ziegler."

Angela smiles, practiced and perfect. She nods her head and looks away shyly. The role of a double agent wouldn't be so easy to pull off with her around. "Thank you, Captain Amari."

She keeps an eye on her. On all of them. For the next few years, falling into a routine that's so natural, Angela isn't sure if there was ever a time where she didn't look at the others as anything more than tools. She's dedicated a total of three years to Overwatch and by proxy Talon, she almost forgets her true purpose for joining the UN's watchdogs. Now, at twenty-one working in their medbay full time she's confused at how it's managed to get this far; which meant there was even less of an explanation for what happened next:

She bursts into tears.

A mission gone wrong in Numbani with Jesse McCree their newest recruit, Gabriel's protégé and the little brother Angela never wanted, is stretchered into the emergency room, bloodied and broken.

His left arm is missing.

The others were just as bad, Gabriel suffered from broken ribs and four dislodged disks, Jack temporarily lost his vision from a bomb going off far too close, his head was cracked open and he couldn't remember his own name, Reinhardt had to be scrapped out of his armor and _that_ was a problem solely because he refused treatment unless Ana was treated _first_ and was safe and sound in a hospital bed. The sniper took several bullets to the torso, but no major organs punctured.

It took Angela and the whole medical staff forever to treat them. By the time, they were finally on the path to recovering with little lasting damage, she considers leaving the team. Gérard, who found them amusing, tells her it's a stupid idea. They'd ask questions and wouldn't rest until they had them. She doesn't care, too exhausted and angry with herself to keep up this charade. Their plans were to infiltrate Overwatch, take advantage of their endless resources to further Project Demigod. Getting attached wasn't a part of it.

She mentions leaving Talon as well.

At this Gérard warns her, deathly serious. Talon would come for her and they wouldn't stop until she was dead and six feet under in an unmarked grave where no one would find her.

Angela doesn't heed the warning and packs her clothes and personal belongings into suitcases the same day. Waiting for night to fall, so she could slip out and never return.

The next morning, she's still there.

 

 

The problem with staying in Overwatch was that she couldn't help the gaping hole in her chest.

Despite seeing the others as family, it does nothing to fix the emptiness behind her ribcage. The lack of an actual heart, to feel and cherish. Sociopaths are characterized as having a complete disregard for human life that isn't their own. Angela had accepted this as her truth; cold and emotionless at the root of her nature. The occasional feelings of love, adoration, compassion and anything else that would usually make her sick, tend to worm their way in sometimes. She steals Jesse's cowboy hat sometimes to get a rise out of him, listens to Reinhardt chatter on and on about his adventures around the world, laughs at Ana's clever puns and jokes, watching old cop movies with Gabriel and Jack — for fuck's sake she almost she lost her new "family" after that disastrous mission in Numbani — Angela Ziegler is a broken soul.

And she can't be fixed.

She finds solace in many addictions, hoping to drown out her feelings and lack thereof with something dark and toxic. Project Demigod continues on schedule and she finds herself purposely making sloppy work of the test subjects. Blood soaking through her gloves until they're no longer blue but a darkened shade of maroon. Her fingers are wet and sticky, slick with the red substance; trying to feel alive by taking someone's life.

At one point, she cuts a test subject open just to feel their heart beating beneath her fingertips.

It's not enough and she trades it in for something more obtainable.

More often than not, she goes with Jesse to bars and nightclubs late at night, hoping to find someone to lay under.

They drink, they party, Angela minds her alcohol intake and while Jesse spends most of his time at the bar, the blonde prefers to spend her time on the dance floor. Moving and swaying to the beat, feeling the vibrations reverberating off the wall and through her bones. Angela feels weightless, as if can fly. She feels free lost within the throng of people; at least she can forget, even just for a moment, the world.

Drugs start to make their rounds around the club, ketamine, cocaine, in the span of thirty minutes, four different people offer her some ecstasy pills. Promising to make her time here feel a whole lot better. Promising she'll be as high as a kite and be grateful for it.   

She dances until she comes across someone in the middle of the dance floor, touching, grinding, the short-haired brunette she's with all but dry humps her thigh. And even through the musky haze, thumping bass and seizure-inducing neon strobe lights of the club, she laughs at how easy her inhibitions come down with a shot or two and a couple of pills.

"Name's Giulia."

"Don't care."

The woman giggles, a hand trails its way up her skirt and Angela makes no attempt to remove it. Instead she pulls the woman out to the backseat of her car parked a couple of blocks north of the club in an underground parking lot.   

They fuck.   

Sweaty and dirty, Angela can taste the alcohol on Giulia's lips. Her tongue. She's wet with desire and the blonde can feel it against her fingers, lost underneath the woman's underwear; the lack of room and the barely off jeans she wears sends her into a moaning mess as she fucks herself wildly against Angela's fingers.

Going out almost every other night for the expressed purpose of having sex with some random stranger isn't good.

Jesse understands, he's twenty-one too, their amplified brains burn to look for gratification from anything that can get the dopamine rushing through their veins. The cowboy takes it upon himself to watch over Angela like a guardian angel, only allowing those he approves near her while the rest are pushed away. Thrown over bar counters if they get rowdy.

Gérard encourages her with a shot of whiskey and a cigar. He's twenty-four and already got the party fever out of his system, so he knows just how important it is for her to get through this. The Frenchman even offers her the keys to his penthouse downtown in case she wanted to bring more than one person to their knees (her car could only fit so many).

It's a tempting offer and she accepts it easily.

The older Overwatch members don't comment. It's awkward enough when they see Angela at work with hickeys, scratches and fading lipstick stains decorating her skin, peeking from underneath her clothes. It happens enough to the point where it becomes routine like everything else. The hole in her chest only gets wider, deeper, swallowing everything in its wake.

She works overtime with Overwatch and Project Demigod. Finding her time split between both and prowling the clubs her fix of the night.

It all comes to a head when she starts working on developing her own nanotechnology.

 

 

She practices on the lab rats first, pricking them with needles until they bled and injecting them with a batch of nanobots made for the expressed purpose of healing injuries. The results are as expected and then she starts experimenting.

Making nanobots aimed for decreasing fatigue, increasing energy and drive and eventually increasing vitality.

But the real success of the project is developing nanobots that were permanent, buried deep within the marrow of her bones, creating an artificial system inside her body meant to be self-healing and most of all stop her aging.

She can pierce the skin of arm, bleed a bright red puddle onto the floor and only feel a light sting. The wound healing in minutes. A revolutionary step in the advancement of medical science.

But the project isn't without its problems.

Blood would occasionally seep out of her nose and ears. A small trickle, she doesn't notice it until she feels her upper lip or the side of neck suddenly become wet and sticky. Sometimes she's so engrossed in her work that a colleague has to force her to stop and head to the medbay where another one of the doctors can help her.

And it only gets worse from there.

Angela is put on bedrest for at least a week and a half, each day an excruciating ordeal as she researches the cause of the pain.

On more than one occasion, Jesse pours a bucket of ice cold water over her head, waking her up from some coma-like haze she doesn’t remember falling into. Her chest is tight and she feels herself falling apart at the seams, limbs dissolving away.

Jesse’s worried and so are the others.

Angela also develops cyanosis, a result of poor circulation and oxygenation leaving her fingertips and sometimes lips in order to compensate for the new system in place inside her body, rendering the affected areas cold. Thankfully, all she needs to do is warm up and it'll go away in a couple of minutes.

Nevertheless, her body is failing to accommodate the new nervous system, the nanobots are temporary, dissolving into body and turning into a cancerous-like virus her body must violently reject and cleanse. Angela falls into a delirious state during her body’s purging, in bed underneath three layers of blankets with her body drenched in cold sweats, she starts to hallucinate.

Bright colors, orange and yellow fill her vision. It’s fire. Her house is on fire and so are all her memories.

Immortality isn’t without a price, and hers is only a fraction of what she would pay, would _sacrifice,_ just to have her parents back.

 

 

Angela deserves a break.

She’s given up so much, done so much, especially with these less than humane and morally ethical experiments she’s done to herself.

And as such, no words are exchanged as she scrambles into the backseat of her car; only the sounds of fabric ripping and squeaking of the leather-bound seats. Her lips never leave the other woman's but when they do, it's when she's pushed back on the seat and marvels at the beauty sitting in between her legs. A bronze skinned goddess, jet black hair and a body carved from marble. The mere sight of those devilish eyes and that skillful tongue running over decadent lips sears her senses; she's burning and it's an amazing feeling.  

Moving up, teeth find their way to her neck. Nipping and biting, Angela moans at the bittersweet feeling. Pleasure and pain breaking skin.   

"Ah fuck," the gorgeous dark haired woman whispers seductively, causing Angela's wetness to pool in her underwear. Her breath becomes rigid as the woman above her in the impossibly tight black shirt trails her fingers down her stomach, barely touching her skin as she reaches the apex of her thighs. And in a matter of seconds, swift work is made of the doctor's jeans.   

Angela hisses, arching into the stranger's hand — getting fucked by a stranger in the backseat of her car is all well and good, the whole aspect of there being no strings attached after tonight makes for a more enjoyable experience — but as swift fingertips brush over her tender, swollen clit, she hates how she begs for more without ever saying a single word.  

She hates being teased.

"Shit..." a breathless whisper escapes Angela's lips as the dark-haired goddess begins lightly kissing her way down her neck, nipping gently at the already sensitive skin as she moves lower.

She keeps her eyes closed, focusing on those velvet soft lips and tongue as they trailed a blazing path across her breasts, pausing to lick at each of her painfully hard nipples before continuing down. The atmosphere is saturated in sex, weighing heavily that the good doctor has to reach around and grip the back of her seat. Nails digging into the polyester while her head falls back continuously moaning.

Instinctively, and almost berating herself for such submissive behavior, she spreads her legs apart as the woman's tongue swirls around her belly button. It causes a whimper she'd been holding back to escape. She feels the bronze skinned woman smile against her skin before she withdraws her lips and shifts her body down lower. Fingers dancing over the soft, smooth skin of her inner thighs before Angela feels a hot, unnecessary breath escape from the stranger's lips.

The first touch of their electric hot tongue against her throbbing clit sends Angela propelling upwards in pure unadulterated pleasure, in a way she thought she'd never experience until tonight.

"Fuck..."

She grips the headrest, feeling the leather straining under her vice-like grip as the stranger gently flicks their tongue against her clit before they deftly slide two fingers inside of her hot, pulsating wet core. Turning her head away Angela sees their reflection in the windows of the car; her face is flushed, body coated in sweat.

Smoldering eyes locking onto her own as the stranger grips her left thigh with the hand not currently preoccupied, keeping her hips from bucking up every time they sucked and licked her clit harder. She can feel the edges of an intense orgasm building quickly and Angela snaps her eyes open, staring down at the dark-haired woman who was staring back under thick eyelashes.

Her body arcs off the car seat, feeling her walls tighten around the swift digits curving inside to hit her g-spot. She's certain that her nails have ripped the back of the headrest into shreds as the woman's fingers thrust into her, so fast and so rhythmically, she squirms unable to keep up. It wasn't long until Angela comes, her fingers curled in the soft tresses of jet black hair, holding onto them for dear life as her orgasm ripples through her.

Panting heavily, all energy spent; the good doctor is seeing stars in her vision. A moment's rest and she manages to breathe normally again. Staring at those hypnotic golden, amber eyes. Bright and almost unsettling in a devilish sort of way.

 

 

_So tell me what I need to do  
To keep myself away from you_

 

 

Everything changes after that night.

Ana Amari is standing in front of her, introducing her dark-haired one night stand as her _sixteen-year-old daughter._

Angela is fucking speechless.

A part of her feels a sense of pride at having taken the legendary sniper's daughter as her plaything all those nights ago, while the other part is mentally berating herself for acting like a mindless, horny teenager for not realizing the obvious similarities between them. Reinhardt suggests that they hug, "because they were family after all", and in doing so, she sizes Fareeha up. Something tells her the younger woman knows this and smirks, practically striding over to the good doctor in a confident walk that doesn't and _shouldn't_ belong to a sixteen-year-old.

The first thing she notices is how incredibly tall the woman is. Standing around at a possible, five-feet-and-eleven-inches, she practically dwarfs Angela and her own mother. The second thing she notices is how physically fit the younger woman is. Now, she isn't chiseled like some sort of warrior goddess, she's still soft around the edges but there is the defining lines of her muscles slightly visible underneath the skin; tall and lanky with her muscles in the beginning stages of being toughened and defined. As Fareeha wraps her arms around Angela's smaller frame, purposely pressing herself against her, she feels nothing but security and strength in those arms.

Angela rests her chin on Fareeha's shoulder, certain that she would've been standing on her tiptoes to do so if it wasn't for her heels.

"You look beautiful with clothes on, can't say it's better than with my tongue inside you." The words are whispered so quickly, each syllable pronounced with a lusty and sharpened edge it sets the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.

She shivers and the hug is over as quickly as it began. Ana and Reinhardt take Fareeha around base, introducing her to everyone else and Angela briskly walks to her office in the medbay. Promptly cancelling her check-ins and research plans for the rest of the day. Immediately she calls Gérard to see if they could meet up and continue their work on Project Demigod a bit early today. She needs an excuse to be off base and thankfully, Gérard finds one for her.

As much as torturing a helpless victim with inhumane experiments managed to quell her apprehension, it does nothing to change the fact that she had been played. The sniper's daughter knew who she was that night they met in the club and played her like a fucking instrument. Angela had established her own little method of blending into the crowd, into sheer anonymity, in order to get what she wanted and in one night it's all gone to shit thanks to that goddamn, cocky little brat!

Angela spends the next few weeks avoiding Fareeha, still pissed at being taken for a fool. When it's lunchtime she eats with Gérard at a single table meant for two if he's around, if not, she heads into the cafeteria to buy a bottle of Vitaminwater before heading back out to eat in her office. She does this to establish distance between them, even as Jesse and the others suffer in confusion at the sudden cold shoulder she gives them. It's unintentional, immediately telling them that she was just stressed and was far too focused in her work to notice.

Jesse walks up to her at the vending machine and asks if she'd be willing to join Fareeha and him for a night out once. While they talk, she notices the way those amber eyes are always watching, watching her, with hawk-like precision, nothing escaping their sight. From the far side of the cafeteria, Angela can feel those eyes burn holes into her.

Hungrily watching.

Reinhardt makes a joke about it, calling it puppy love. Ana is quick to brush it off as nothing more than a simple crush because the thought of her daughter growing up in any aspect is too much to bear, but Angela knows. She knows those eyes don't belong to some childlike fascination, a harmless, meaningless crush.

Those eyes are devilishly lustful. They're clouded by a red-like haze, almost primal and animalistic possession unfurling along the edges.

 

 

Project Demigod is temporarily forced onto the back burner while Talon investigate the raid on their St. Gallen hideout. It was something no one thought would ever happen, they were careful, meticulous in their planning to keep the place safe. It'd be easy to think that some homeless squatters found it and thought to ransack it for some valuables, but they knew better.

With the St. Gallen hideout compromised, Talon informs that they would have to use her house in Lucerne as their new base of operations. It isn’t much of an inconvenience since she rarely used it, only buying it to continue the lie that she was some rich doctor, in case Torbjörn decided to visit. They settle the necessary equipment in the basement and schedule movers to take Angela’s stuff from Overwatch to the house by the end of the week.

Throughout that time, Gérard isn’t seen or heard from. All that’s left is a note telling her that Talon had brought him in for questioning. The Frenchman is recognized as a very rich and popular socialite in Switzerland's upper class, because of this he was an easy target and could've let slip the location of their hideout. He could've sold them out.

He didn't obviously, the man values his life and money above all else, but the bruises and the branding marks to his skin were warnings. The threat of almost crushing his windpipe and shattering his bones were a promise to do more than just torture him if he didn't keep in line.

A couple of Talon's mercenaries dress up as movers and load all her things into the back of their truck. Angela takes the elevator down once her room is cleaned out, anxious that the mercs were standing outside of Overwatch's front doors, praying that everything would go as planned.

The elevator is empty and she finds comfort in it, hoping the ride down would stay this way. Until it stops on the thirteenth floor and the doors open.

"Doctor Ziegler," a cool voice says and Angela can't believe her luck.

"Fareeha."

The Egyptian stands beside her, clad in nothing more than black sweatpants, matching sports bra and white running shoes. She's covered in a light sheen of sweat, her body lightly glowing underneath the fluorescent bulbs overhead.

"So... you're moving off base."

"Yes."

"Damn, I'm gonna miss you Doctor Ziegler." Fareeha says with a grin. It's sly and her amber eyes are swirling with want that catches Angela off-guard. "I'll miss your lips even more."

"Christ, you're insatiable." Angela huffs, annoyed by the younger woman's words. "Have you no self-control? What would your mother think?"

Fareeha laughs, " _Ami_ , is too busy with work to even notice the things I do. As long as I don't cause trouble, everything's fine."

The good doctor knew that the younger woman had to suffer from some sort of abandonment issues from Ana not being around as often as she would have liked, she knew this from the few talks she had with Reinhardt and the way Fareeha and Ana were always at each other's throats. The base would sometimes shake from their screaming matches, at this point they were considered legendary despite Fareeha only being on base for several months. But that wasn't the only thing that made Angela weary of the Egyptian.

There's something _dark_ about the younger woman, something that wasn't right. Of course, she had this sense of narcissism from her mother being a legendary sniper and coming from a long line of decorated military soldiers, it was in Fareeha's blood and she was quick to one up the rookies in anything Jack and Gabriel threw at them. Even Jesse couldn't keep up with her at times. She was light years ahead of everyone —but it had Angela wondering as to who this woman was, truly?

"Shouldn't you be out causing trouble with Jesse?"

"Jesse got assigned to some mission in Germany. Won't be back for a couple of days."

"And what will you do until then?" The good doctor feigns interest.

"Screw around with one of the new interns, in fact there's one from Norway." There's a devious smirk on Fareeha's face. "Carmella I think her name is. She's really sweet, blonde with the bluest eyes ever."

"Then again..." The bronzed beauty trails off, almost dreamily. And before Angela can see it coming, the elevator comes to a complete stop and she's pressed against the wall. "There’s someone else I'd rather play with."

All her senses are consumed by the younger woman and suddenly she feels a pair of soft lips brushing along hers, teasing and tempting.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” Fareeha plants a light kiss on Angela's jaw. Smirking as she hears the good doctor's breath hitch. “Ever since that night all I can think about is touching you.”

Fareeha moves lower, planting a kiss on her shoulders, pulling the lab coat and cashmere shirt down to reach the pale skin below.

“Think about the sounds you make when you're about to come.” She kisses her collarbone, shifting her body and pushing one of her thighs between Angela’s open legs. The blonde makes an audible gasp and Fareeha smirks, licking up a stray bead of sweat. The taste is salty, with a hint of vanilla from the body lotion Angela used earlier, the Egyptian lets out a guttural groan. She gives Angela's breasts a possessive squeeze, before catching the blonde's mouth in a searing kiss.

The kiss isn’t soft but it’s everything Angela imagined it would be. One hand buries itself in the bronzed beauty’s dark hair and the other slides around her neck to keep her from moving her head and breaking the kiss. It's rough, teeth clashing and nails clawing away to grasp more skin. The good doctor bites down on Fareeha’s bottom lip and in turn, the younger woman grinds her hips hard against Angela’s.

There's blood on the younger woman’s lip, it's a bright contrast compared to her pink lips and Angela can't help but suck on Fareeha's bottom lip. She doesn't know what's come over her but she likes the taste, sweet and metallic. Fareeha moans into her mouth, kissing back with fervor. Angela's hands move on their own and suddenly, she finds them wrapped around Fareeha's throat.

Squeezing.

The blonde watches the younger woman's face, looking for any signs of fear; instead she finds something that fans the fire burning at the pit of her stomach. _Pleasure_. Her hands tighten, and instead of reaching to pry those hands off her closing throat Fareeha's hands snake their way up Angela's skirt, grabbing slender hips and grounds them against hers. Fareeha's thigh rubs against Angela's core, finding her stockings wet, her arousal staining the Egyptian's sweatpants. Fareeha lets out a strangled moan, eyes closed shut as she feels Angela move a thigh between her own legs.

Desperately she grinds herself against it, the younger woman dry humping it as the hands around her throat seize control, to the point where her lungs are ready to burst. Seeing Fareeha move like a dog in heat against her thigh, Angela feels herself on the verge of an orgasm. Fareeha's face is red and getting darker by the second, eyes rolling into the back of her, her movements are jerky and rough and just as she nears the end, Angela releases her. An orgasm hitting them both like a runaway train, fast and earth shattering.

Angela cries out and Fareeha sinks her teeth into the good doctor's shoulder.

Coming down from the high, Fareeha's legs give out and she sinks to her knees on the elevator floor. Breathing heavily, she rests her head against Angela's legs, drained of all energy. Angela looks down and picks the younger woman's head up, seeing a telltale hand print across the Egyptian's throat, face still lightly red. Her bottom lip still bleeds slightly, and yet, it does nothing to change the smile that ends up forming on Fareeha's face.

 

 

Gerard calls Angela one early morning as she drives to work.

“Hello?”

“It was Overwatch.” The Frenchman says hurriedly, his voice thick with fear. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

“That’s impossible!”

“It’s true _mon cher_ , some of the mercenaries managed to track down some homeless person who happened to be in the area during the raid. Filthy bastard said a group of soldiers in blue uniforms and guns stormed the place and started hauling everything out and loading them onto trucks.”

“Says they were being led by some Middle Eastern looking woman with long hair. Talon is pissed off Angela, I’m hearing word that Amari and Reyes are poking around the safehouses we used for Midnight Climax — I have dealings with some really important investors in Russia, I lose them, I’m as good as dead! We both are!”

“As long as they don’t find any evidence that can be linked to us, we’ll be fine.” She tries to reassure the Frenchman but all she hears are incoherent, exasperated ramblings in his native tongue.

Talon isn’t one to be backed into a corner like some caged animal. He knew this firsthand, the warnings branded into his skin are fresh in her mind and Angela only wonders what they would do to her during an interrogation. The good doctor shivers at the thought of Talon finding out about her nanobot dependency. She wouldn’t put it past them to torture her with it, letting her body corrode until it tore itself apart.

Angela arrives at the parking lot outside of Overwatch headquarters and sees Fareeha and Jesse running laps around the field.

A thoughts pops into her head and she smirks.

“Ana Amari was one of the soldiers leading the raid, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Gerard, tell Talon I’ve got everything under control.”

 

 

Angela is a horrible person.

Despicable and conniving, she slithers into the Amari’s home and makes her place with them as if she had been there forever. Ana already considered her as a daughter, going as far as calling her _habibti_ and other familial terms of endearment, so nothing seems forced or out of place when the sniper starts divulging some private information to the Swiss woman. Personal information, more about her life and that of her daughter’s but nonetheless, it only meant she was getting closer.

Once a week, Ana invites Angela over to have some pizza or takeout from the nearby Chinese restaurant. They watch old movies together, have dinner and just talk about their day and sometimes Jesse tags along and both he and Fareeha make a mess of things with their competitive rivalry much to Ana’s dismay. Jack visits a few times, bringing dessert or a bottle of liquor and Gabriel comes around a handful of times, each time he sneaks Fareeha a bag of candy they both know her mother would have a fit over and side eyes Angela like she doesn’t belong there. _Shouldn’t belong there._ The good doctor pays no mind to him, knowing that it was only his ever-increasing paranoia getting the best of him.

She’s singled out as the intruder because of her lack of comradery until as of late. Gabriel Reyes is an annoying blip on her radar, but she lets him be. Expecting the man’s paranoia and insecurities to do the work of disposing him for her. Jack Morrison would be promoted to Strike Commander soon and that’s all the push needed to shove him off the deep end.

Angela smiles at the man. Perfect and practiced. She won’t have to lift a finger for that one.

The only relatively permanent fixture during these weekly get-togethers is Reinhardt. The human sledgehammer fits perfectly with the Amari’s, so much so, the easy rapport he has with Fareeha is far too reminiscent of a father/daughter relationship that leaves her questioning. The German is attentive and would rather die a thousand deaths before letting harm come to them and Angela remembers to save this observation for a later date.

Angela’s lies are believable and the legendary sniper doesn’t suspect a thing.

But what made her trickery hard was fighting off these feelings of want for the younger Amari.

Playing with the younger woman's lust was what was going to get her the intel she needed, access to the sniper’s files if she wanted to know just how much Overwatch knew about Talon. Angela knew how to pull her strings, after all, Fareeha is sixteen, a teenager. And teenagers only ever thought about sex so manipulating her was easy.

But to get swept away by these feelings was not a part of the plan.

Made only even more infuriating when Fareeha walks around the Amari household in tiny boy shorts and an oversized Overwatch shirt, casually bending over to pick something off the floor she purposely dropped or pressing herself against the good doctor's back so she can feel her bare breasts through the cotton material.

Often times Fareeha coaxes Angela into sitting next to her and sometimes falling onto her lap, it's usually done when they play a game together, Angela pretending to get in the Egyptian's way as they fought to win. They laugh and Ana thinks nothing of it. Finding it endearing that her daughter and the doctor were carrying on like children.

But as soon as the elder Amari is fast asleep in her bedroom two doors down, snoring, Angela drops the game controller and presses Fareeha against the armrest of the couch. Finding the younger woman’s boy shorts already wet with desire.

“Favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Twelve times seven?”

“Eighty-four.”

“Capital of Germany?”

“Berlin.”

Angela straddles the younger woman’s hips, hands wrapped around her wrists and pinning them above her head. She doesn’t touch Fareeha, doesn’t need to, to have the bronzed beauty writhing beneath her. Squirming helplessly as she quietly begs for contact, begs for Angela to touch her. And when the good doctor lets go of her wrists, she expects those pale hands on her but they’re not. Instead, Angela unbuttons her blouse, slow and torturous, Fareeha whimpers and shoots up.

“Touch me and we’re done.” The command leaves Angela’s lips quickly, stern and assertive and Fareeha falls back on the bed frustrated.

The buttons on her silk blouse are undone and hang against her slender frame haphazardly. She wears nothing beneath the expensive top but a lacy black bra, worn specifically for this exact occasion. Fareeha moans at the sight, licking her lips and if Angela wasn’t so focused on the task at hand she’s sure she would have succumbed to the weight of the Egyptian’s hungry gaze.

Fareeha is being punished for her indiscretions and that is how Angela is able to mask her intentions.

She undoes her belt and buckles it around the younger woman’s arms, securing them behind her back and she knows she’s done enough when Fareeha hisses. Immobilized, all she can do is watch Angela touch herself and helplessly rub her thighs together at the sight.

Angela smirks, eyes never leaving the bronzed beauty who begged for physical contact. Begged to touch Angela and feel her pale skin against her. 

“Ah—” Fareeha moans and Angela shushes her, fingers against her lips as a hand disappears beneath the waistband of her boy shorts. Her skin flushes a pretty pink shade, teeth biting on her bottom lip. Fareeha starts moaning, viciously shoving up into Angela’s hand, her body wound up like a coiled spring.

Angela reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, grabbing her phone and hits record.

“Capital of Australia?”

“S-Sydney…”

“Access code to Ana’s private terminal?”

“Seven, e-eight, two… _oh fuck_ … nine, four, zero.”

Danger creeping along their nerves as any loud noises could potentially wake Ana up.

Angela slithers her way down the Egyptian’s body. Removing her baby blue boy shorts in one swift motion, discarding the ruined shorts beside the couch. Fareeha is wet, dripping with promise and desire. Angela swirls her tongue along her clit, fingers sliding in perfectly and Fareeha lets out a gasp. She’s unbelievably tight, wrapped around her fingers in a delicious vice. “Fu— Oh! God. Don’t st—  _Angela don’t stop.”_

Her body seizes up as she comes; enough pressure is built up and she squirts into Angela’s mouth and a light flush of embarrassment spreads across her cheeks. _Not so much of a big talker now, are you?_ The good doctor laps up her juices, not daring to miss a drop as the younger woman beneath her deflates. The Egyptian tastes like milk and honey and the last remaining bits of Angela’s humanity.

She’d be remiss if she didn’t want more.

 

 

_To keep myself from going down  
All the way down with you_


End file.
